Black Dahlia
by Simply Not
Summary: There's nothing left to take from you. But you give anyway. Rated T for drug use. Slash. Koy. Second POV


Author's Note: contains mentions of drug use. And I didn't really proof read it so... Sorry.

Disclaimer: own nada. I would die from complete euphoria if I did and this wouldn't exist.

* * *

**Black Dahlia**

_And I've lost it all, fell today, it's all the same_

_I'm sorry oh, I'm sorry, I'm sorry no no_

_And I've been abused, I feel so used because of you_

_I'm sorry oh, I'm sorry, I'm sorry no no_

_-Hollywood Undead, Black Dahlia_

* * *

The banging in the kitchen roused you from that place between awake and sleep at five AM. For a second, it confused you. You had only just gotten to bed two hours before, having assisted Nightwing with a mission after you had to come home and deal with him.

To return and have him, sitting on your couch, nine at night, with that look.

For there to be_ Roy._

For that horrible, brash, insensitive red haired devil be there.

Sitting on your couch, an hour after the red head said that he'd be on patrol, was Roy, shirt sleeve pulled up and one of the most relaxed expressions you had ever seen on the man. He's made a great deal of effort for you to never see him when he's done it, which is why you've actually only see it a handful of times, if that. Why you had to wait so long to figure it out. Why you forget each time (four, your mind supplies. You've seen it four times. The first at sixteen, right after you learned that this Roy, the Roy you loved and cherished and wanted and lusted after, was a clone. That last time being a year ago, at the age of twenty-five, when Lian was in that horrible accident that left her in a coma for three weeks and you stood in Roy's spot at the hospital, taking care of the small child and cursing the man silently but taking it in stride like you do everything concerning him), why you forget what it does to him.

But when you do see it. It's passionate and hateful and painful and so sick, you've never realized that it's supposed to make the user feel _so high_, so relaxed, so in-tune with a twisted form of happiness and terror and sadness and complete loss and gain of everything.

You wouldn't know, because you wouldn't do it. It's against your nature to do something like this.

And so you stared at him because, _Roy, aren't you supposed to be on patrol?_

He smiled lazily at you, the calm serene gone, replaced by a vicious smirk and clouded eyes.

"Fuck you," he said. "Kiss me."

And you shook your head, because you don't like it when he's like this. He's not your Roy when he's like this. The closest thing you can compare him to is Cheshire's Roy, because she let's things like this slide, because she has one foot in that door and doesn't mind it, can deal with him like this, where you want nothing to do with this. This human need to mess up and enjoy it.

Another thing that you can't understand about the surface world and he never let's you forget it.

"Is this the reason why Lian is staying with Dinah?" Because you've _wondered_ if he plans this. If he goes out and actually thinks about this, thinks about getting high, formulates a plan and a course of action and acts on it.

But you hold out for the good in him - maybe he goes out and he gets put into a situation that he can't get out of and he ends up like this.

But he had never done it in the apartment you share. He's always come home high and on the verge of needing to fight and to laugh and to yell and to whisper and to fuck and to make love. You never give him any of it though. You let him roll out of it, come to his senses in the morning and let him regretfully make you breakfast and.

You always forget with time what it does to him.

"You're always so fucking silent. So cold and distant and hateful and righteous."

His words are starting to slur but they still hold that power to them. The ability to cut and bleed and twist your insides.

You let him roll.

Because you don't know what else to do. Because you don't know how to handle him. Because you _can't_ handle him.

He stands and stomps over to you, hands bracing your face and you move away, saying you have to leave. You have places to be. He should go to sleep.

But he fights you. He tugs and scratches and hits and you think.

Maybe just this once. This once I can stay here with him. The team does not need me. Roy needs me. He needs me. I should be here for him. No one ever needs me. I'm needed and wanted and loved and I shouldn't take that for granted. Because who could want me? Who could love me like Roy? Who whispers into my ear I love you, I need you, you're mine.

Mine mine mine, as he takes everything your are, everything you were, everything you will ever be. As his fingers and lips burn you, take and give and take.

You can give him this.

You can give him _you_.

But he grabs your face particularly hard, hard enough for you to feel through your tough skin and you shove, because, no, you have a duty. You tell him he has one to.

And he snarls and smirks and kicks open the door and leaves.

And when he does that, you turn and continue getting ready to meet up with Nightwing. Because you don't know what else to do. You go and complete your mission. Because you don't know what else to do. You return and go to sleep. Because you don't know what else to do.

So when you wake up to the banging in your kitchen, and roll yourself out of bed silently like you have trained yourself to, and you creep into the lit room, you just stare at the tense, scarred back of the man you love.

And you tell yourself.

_You shouldn't love him_.

And he must have just recently come down, because he's sluggish and sad and angry. And he pauses when you purposefully scuff your foot across the floor.

Roy turns and looks at you, regret and hurt and betrayal and trust and love longing hope sadness guilt want all scream at you through his eyes.

But you can't care. _Don't let yourself care_, you plead. Turn away. Go back to bed. Lock the door throw away the key and let him go.

He opens his mouth.

You can't talk to him, you can't. You know you can't. Ignore him. _Ignore me_, you beg. Go away. _I don't need you, you don't _deserve_ me_. It's the first selfish thought you've had in a long time. That you're worth something, that you can mean more to someone. That you have potential and greatness and ability.

But he speaks anyway, despite what you want.

"Hey."

Remember what he's done. The pain, the worry, the hate, the abuse.

He's hurt you.

He's been the judge, jury and executioner in the relationship.

He's made you go through these torturous nights, wishing that it would just end, that he would just leave, that you would leave, that if you could take this all back, you would.

He's made you want to forget him, want to forget the surface, want to forget what you fight for.

_He's compromised you_.

"Hello," you eventually say.

* * *

I wanted something more from this, but I'm in such a writers block I don't know what to do anymore.

Shame for shame.

Eva


End file.
